Deletion
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: After Sherlock and John are separated for a long time, John returns and finds that Sherlock has "deleted" him. John must figure out a way to make Sherlock remember him, or else build their entire friendship (if that's really all it is) from scratch. Ship: Johnlock, some Mystrade.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**I don't know how long this story will be, but it shouldn't end up being a fucking book like some of my other stuff. At least one more chapter will be added though, as long as I think people are enjoying it. See, I have a lot of stuff going on in my life right now, so if people do not seem interested in this story, I won't bother continuing it. So really, if you like this, favourite or review it, because if not, I won't bother to write another chapter.**

**That is all. **

* * *

There had always been a possibility that John would end up in real danger. With what they did, it wasn't even an unlikely possibility. He'd found himself in harm's way several times because of the work he did with Sherlock, but Sherlock had always been able to save him. It was never a question. Sherlock knew, deep inside whatever essence was possibly inside of his body, that he would always be there to save John. Even when he had been away, after the fall, he'd been watching, protecting John. Now that they'd been living together again for several years, it was even more of a firm fact. Nothing could ever happen to John Watson when Sherlock Holmes was around.

But he had been wrong.

One day, John just suddenly wasn't there anymore.

Sherlock woke up, and he was sitting in the front room. Somehow, he'd fallen asleep off schedule. He hollered up the stairs, "John, I want some tea!"

No response.

Sherlock continued to think silently through the morning, almost forgetting about John. But then he became confused again.

"John?" he called up the stairs. "Aren't you due at the surgery soon?"

No answer this time either, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He actually bothered to remember John's work schedule and John wasn't even there to acknowledge it? Unacceptable.

Sherlock fluidly stood from his spot on the settee and went up the steps three at a time.

He pushed the door open, forgetting too late that John hated when he didn't knock.

But nobody was there. John's bed stood unmade and empty.

Sherlock's brows creased. This was strange.

He considered for one sixteenth of a second that John might've gone to work early, but then a suspicion filtered into his mind, one that made his eyes widen and made him literally run down the stairs.

He picked up the mug that had contained his tea from the night before. He wiped his finger along the edge and sniffed. Nothing. But that didn't say a thing.

And hour and a lot of chemicals and microscopic examination later, Sherlock's suspicion had been confirmed. A sleeping agent had been given to Sherlock.

And because of this… John was gone.

Sherlock went outside and hailed a cab by walking in front of it. The only way to quickly get its attention.

He went straight to New Scotland Yard, barging in the door like he really worked there and up to Lestrade's department.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked when he saw him, munching on a donut.

"God, the freak's comin' in even when there isn't a case now?" complained Donovan, but Sherlock completely ignored it. He didn't have time for her—or anyone else, for that matter.

"John's gone missing."

"Probably he wanted to get away from you for a tick," Anderson said, having peeked his head in when he saw Sherlock walk in.

"Anderson, _out_," Lestrade commanded, and Anderson rolled his eyes and withdrew his head. "John's _missing_? Have you sent him a text or anything?"

"He should've been home this morning, only he wasn't, and then I realised I fell asleep on the couch, and yesterday was a Tuesday, I never sleep on Tuesdays, so I checked the mug I was using last night and there was a trace of GHB on the rim. I was drugged and then somebody took John from the flat."

Apparently, that was enough for Lestrade. He stood up and started packing things up.

"Kidnappings aren't your department, you know," said Donovan through the door.

Lestrade glared at her. "This is _John_, Sally. When my friend goes missing, I plan to take a look."

She blinked up at him, apparently surprised by his reaction. Then she looked up to Sherlock. "You're quiet," she noticed, a suspicious look on her face. Even though Sherlock had proved he was not a psychopathic murderer, she was always suspicious of him.

"Give it a rest," snapped Lestrade, coming loyally to Sherlock's defense. "His best friend's gone missing."

"More like his boyfriend," Anderson sneered.

Sherlock didn't even bother to argue, and both Donovan and Anderson seemed to realise that.

"You're not honestly dating him, are you?" Donovan asked.

Finally, Sherlock glared down at her. "Your idiotic curiosity is not helpful in the least at the moment. As an officer, I rather thought your moral compass would make you overlook the fact that helping with this would be a favour to me, because John is a good man and deserves every man on the damn planet to be looking for him."

Both of them looked up at Sherlock from their desks in surprise. Had Sherlock just honest-to-god lost his temper? And called John a good man too.

And then, to the shock of everyone in the room—other than Sherlock, who had intended to play her like a violin—Donovan quickly began to pack her things. "You comin'?" she asked to Anderson.

He looked exasperated, but then sighed. "F_iiii_ne."

The four of them and some people who were actually from the Adult Missing Persons Department all headed for the flat. Sherlock got his own cab and didn't let anyone else come with him, and then he met them outside.

The men did their work. No sign of forced entry at the door, but there was definitely a sign of struggle in John's room and damage to the bins under his window. They figured that was how the kidnapper got in and out. Sherlock had already deduced that from a single glance at the outside lock, but was not really in the mood to brag. How had he, the _great_ Sherlock Holmes, been fooled so easily? Now John was gone and they didn't know who took him or where he was now.

Or what state he was in.

Sherlock felt like he'd seen seven or eight Baskerville Hounds and was at a complete loss for what to do.

Which was an unfamiliar and quite unpleasant feeling for him.

It took him a long time to realise that someone was trying to talk to him. He'd been standing in front of 221 for a long time, letting the Met do their jobs. But now almost everyone was gone, and Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were still there. Lestrade was trying to get his attention, the other two were standing to the side, impatiently waiting for Lestrade to be done talking to Sherlock.

"Oh, Inspector," said Sherlock, shaking his head to clear it.

Usually, when he didn't respond to people, he heard what they said, but was ignoring them. This time, he had no idea what Lestrade had said to him.

Lestrade looked concerned, but said, "There's not much more to do at the flat. The AMPD are out looking. Other than putting up fliers, there isn't much—"

"Of course there are things I can do," Sherlock snapped. "I'm going to look for John."

"You've got no clue where he is. Or who took him."

"I'll find a clue. There's always a clue."

Probably, Sherlock looked more manic than usual, because Lestrade looked a little frightened and the other two had stopped chatting to look at him in something between shock and disgust.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade muttered.

"You can go, Inspector. Text me the moment you find anything."

Lestrade looked about to speak again, but then sighed and nodded. "Will do."

And then Sherlock began the hunt.

* * *

Sherlock was pacing the flat. He was missing something. He had to be missing something. All physical evidence of the crime was gone by now, withered away with time and by the seasons, but there had to be _something_. He was no closer to finding John than he was the day he vanished.

There was a knock at the door. He'd stopped being surprised by this. Suddenly, everyone came to visit. Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, even Sarah once or twice. They were _worried_.

He didn't bother to answer, because whoever it was would let themselves in if they really wanted a chat.

And they did. It was Lestrade.

Lestrade's eyes widened, probably at Sherlock appearance. Like he hadn't slept, eaten, or showered in so long that Sherlock probably honestly couldn't remember when he last did any of it. Unshaven probably being the oddest part. Like he had time for that now, when there was a case to solve.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, you look like a dead man walking!" yelled Lestrade, skipping his usual pleasantries.

"I need to solve the case."

Immediately, there was sympathy on Lestrade's face. "Sherlock… John's gone."

Sherlock turned on Lestrade with fury burning like fire in his eyes. "He's not _gone_! He can't be!"

The sadness on Lestrade's face was only more annoying to him.

There was a long, long silence.

Then, "Sherlock, I didn't know you could feel this way about someone."

Sherlock looked back to him for long enough to say, "My regrettable sentiment was revealed to you after my fake suicide, was it not?"

"Sentiment, sure, but Sherlock… blimey, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were in love with him."

Sherlock's heart nearly stopped at the words. He quit pacing. He looked to Lestrade, dazed.

"What, you've never considered that before? John's been gone more than a year and you're still as desperate to find him as you were fifteen months ago."

"Wouldn't you be?" Sherlock demanded harshly.

"If it were just a friend, I'd be sad, and have some hope, but I wouldn't be like this, no. But… if it were my wife, then yeah, I'd still be like this. Because I'm in love with her."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He swallowed hard. He felt his eyes burning in an unfamiliar way.

Lestrade saw it. "Geez, Sherlock, are you crying?"

Sherlock glared at Lestrade. "Of course I'm not," he snapped, forcing the betraying wetness to recede back into the lacrimal canal where it belonged.

"Sherlock… I'm sorry, I really am. But this isn't healthy. You're going to kill yourself, and John wouldn't've wanted that."

"You're speaking about John in the past tense," Sherlock said. "You know how I feel about that."

"Well I don't bloody care. The past tense is the only proper way _to_ think about him! Sherlock, he's gone. I'm really, truly sorry, but he's not coming back. You need to find a way to forget him or you're going to fall over dead."

And Lestrade, in apparent irritation, stormed out of the flat.

Sherlock was left standing there, stunned.

Sherlock had never, not once in the fourteen months, twenty one days, twelve hours, and forty-six minutes John had been gone, ever considered he was actually _gone_.

But now that possibility was flooding in him, making him feel like he never had before. Like he was drowning, like his lungs had vanished from his chest, like he was free falling without a parachute, like he was being dragged behind a car going a hundred miles an hour, like he was being hit by a train on either side, like he was being bludgeoned in the head. All at once. Over and over again.

And before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was on the floor, curled into a ball and crying. Sobbing. Weeping for the loss he had never bothered to accept.

That was when Lestrade re-entered the room, apparently over his little spout of anger and wanting to continue to convince Sherlock to try to live normally—or semi-normally—again.

"My god," he said, kneeling down in front of Sherlock. "I… wow… I didn't mean…"

Sherlock couldn't even care that he had an audience now, because he was too busy being killed in every possible way in his own mind. He had never in his life thought that losing a person could affect him this deeply, but now he was feeling it all at once and he literally felt like his body was shutting down.

His mind. He couldn't think. His brain was the only thing that mattered and it wasn't even working anymore.

Lestrade clearly didn't know what to do, because he must've figured touching Sherlock might illicit a violent response. But while Sherlock came undone on the floor, Lestrade did not get up and leave, did not even shift his weight. He just sat there, being supportive without verbal or physical condolences.

It took Sherlock a long time to calm down again. He felt his mind coming back to him, and immediately he felt embarrassed at all Lestrade had seen.

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but then Sherlock cut him off, standing up and saying, "You are never to speak of John Watson again. I will never do so again either. You will call me tomorrow with a case."

"You haven't done a case in—"

"Did you hear me or not?"

"Sherlock—"

"Get out!" Sherlock bellowed, and Lestrade sighed and went to the door. About to say something else, but then Sherlock glared at him until he reluctantly shut the door.

He could not allow the memory of John to keep him from functioning, as it had been for so long now. No more.

So Sherlock sat down on the settee, closing his eyes and retreating into his mind palace. Going into the back, where there were rooms and rooms dedicated to John Hamish Watson.

And mentally, Sherlock set fire to them all.

John would never distract him again, because he wouldn't even know a John Watson ever existed.

Finally, he was free.

* * *

John woke up blearily, having absolutely no idea where he was. He remembered… god, he hardly remembered anything. A dark room. One he sat in for a long, long time. Getting handed meals like some kind of prisoner. But nothing else.

John looked around and realised he was sitting in an alley with several homeless people.

What in the hell had happened to him?

John got up and immediately headed for 221B. Sherlock probably did some bloody experiment on him, that's what happened. Well, Sherlock had better be ready for a nice sock to the jaw for that one.

John got to the apartment and luckily, Sherlock was just leaving.

"Sherlock!" John bellowed.

Sherlock looked at him with an eyebrow up. "I'd say you want an autograph, but usually fans don't look so angry."

Then he continued to walk.

"Excuse me?" John yelled after him. Sherlock didn't even turn, so John ran after him. "Sherlock, what the hell happened?"

"What, do you need some case solved? Leave me be, will you?"

John felt like he was in a bad dream. Why was Sherlock acting like this? An experiment, probably. But it wasn't funny.

"Sherlock, god, what're you doing?"

Sherlock hailed a cab and got in, and John shoved himself in the door and the cabbie went before Sherlock could push him out.

Sherlock looked at John incredulously. "What do you _want_? I'm on my way to Scotland Yard, so if you keep harassing me, I might actually get annoyed enough to take it up with them."

"Sherlock, what _are_ you on about? You aren't making any sense."

"You're the one who's making no sense," Sherlock responded, looking out the window. "I don't even know you."

John decided maybe the goal was for him to play along. "It's me, John. John Watson."

Sherlock didn't look over as he said, "And is that supposed to mean something to me?"

John blinked at Sherlock, who was still looking uninterestedly out the window. What in _hell_ was going on here? Sherlock really didn't seem to be joking. He had to be asleep. He had to be.

But the cab got to the Yard and John paid, because he always did. Even so, Sherlock looked at him oddly for a moment before he got out. John followed and Sherlock didn't stop him.

They got out of the lift and John was determined to figure out from Lestrade what was going on.

But as soon as everyone saw him, he knew something was wrong. They were all gaping at him, speechless, like he was a ghost or something.

"Today is about the weirdest damn day of my whole life," John decided out loud. "Why are you all looking at me like that?"

"You're alive!" Lestrade said loudly.

"Of course I'm bloody alive, what'd you expect?!" John snapped, getting extremely angry.

"Lestrade, you know this man?" Sherlock enquired.

And now everyone gaped at Sherlock.

"Okay, someone's going to explain this to me," said John, and he barreled forward, taking Lestrade by the arm and pulling him into his office, shutting the door so nobody else could come in. "Why're you so surprised to see me, first off?"

"John…" Lestrade muttered, seeming to be looking for the correct words to explain what he was thinking. "You've been missing for two and a half years."

John literally did not comprehend what Lestrade was saying. "Sorry?"

"You were kidnapped in mid-2013 and were never found."

"It _is_ 2013," John said exasperatedly. "July… July third, isn't it?"

Another long silence. And then Lestrade looked down, grabbed a newspaper off his desk, and handed it to John. John picked it up, skimming it. Then his eyes landed on the date.

November, 2015.

John looked up to Lestrade, feeling distinctly like he was the subject of a bad practical joke.

But in the next ten minutes, it was proved to be very much real. Lestrade explained that John disappeared and nobody knew where to find him. He said Sherlock wasn't taking it well at first.

"At first?" John asked.

"Yeah… somewhere around a year back, he started acting like you don't exist. If anyone brought you up, he'd look confused, say he didn't recall who we were talking about. Some silly coping mechanism, we supposed, but now you're here and he's still doing it… it doesn't make sense."

But now John understood.

My god.

Sherlock had **_DELETED_** **_HIM_**.

"Yes it does," John said.

John quickly explained Sherlock's ability to delete things from his memory and Lestrade began to understand the situation.

Suddenly, he looked guilty. "God, I told him to forget you. I told him. I didn't know he could literally _forget_ someone."

"Yeah, he can do that…" John sighed. Then he looked up to Lestrade. "Wait, you told him to forget me? Why?"

Lestrade twiddled his thumbs nervously.

"Please tell me," John insisted.

"I don't know if you want to know."

"I do, trust me."

Lestrade was quiet again, and the sighed in defeat. "He was a damn wreck, John. He was grieving you so much he couldn't function."

"Grieving? _Sherlock_?"

"I know," Lestrade said. "I couldn't believe it either. But he was literally withering away because he had no desire to look after himself. It was… well, it was kind of like how you were when _he_ was gone, except worse. A lot worse."

John didn't like to think about the time he had thought Sherlock was dead.

Actually, that had been just about two and a half years that he thought that. Two years and four months. An odd coincidence.

But John had been horrible while Sherlock was gone. To imagine Sherlock had been _worse_… John was overwhelmed with so many different emotions that he couldn't differentiate them all in his head. But the pervasive one at the moment was sorrow. For Sherlock, for himself.

He voiced his next thought aloud.

"Then what the hell do I do? Sherlock's forgotten me."

John half-expected Lestrade to tell him that he just needed to forget Sherlock too. But instead he said, "He must be able to un-delete things."

Maybe he knew that there was no way John could ever forget Sherlock, so there was no point in suggesting it.

"Maybe…" John said. He always had faith Sherlock could do anything. But undoing something Sherlock had done to his own mind… it seemed unlikely to be possible.

"But until then…" Lestrade murmured, grabbing John by the coat and dragging him back out into the other room. "Sherlock, you prat, how'd you manage to delete this?" John was about to hit him over the head for being so damn open about it, but then he continued, "Your friend Stamford referred this man to you to be your flat mate. You said you'd meet him at 221B tonight."

Nobody else in the room knew what was going on, obviously, but they didn't seem to feel comfortable asking either. They just stared, dumbfounded.

Sherlock looked honestly confused, but only for a moment. "Probably it didn't seem important at the time." He looked to John. "So where've you been kept confined lately?" he asked casually.

"I don't actually know," John replied steadily.

Sherlock looked confused again. "You aren't wondering how I knew that?"

John kept himself from smiling. Right, Sherlock thought they only just met. Expected the surprise at his brilliance. "Not really," John said. "So let's go look at this flat, shall we?"

Sherlock continued to look dumbfounded and part of John rather enjoyed it.

But at the same time, all the time he'd spent getting to know Sherlock, earning his trust, had vanished. Everything between them… it was all gone. Was he capable of living with a Sherlock that honestly didn't know him?

Well, it didn't matter if John knew the answer, it seemed, because whether he liked it or not, he was about to find out.

* * *

**Hey guys. So like I said at the top, let me know what you think so I know whether to bother continuing this story. Thanks a lot for your comments in advance!**


	2. Chapter 2

**People seemed interested, so I'll continue. Sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than the last. I'm just kind of busy and can't write a bunch at once right now. But here's a bit. Sorry in advance if it's boring. **

* * *

John was finding that pretending he didn't know Sherlock was even more difficult than he expected, and it had only been an hour.

First the two of them got into a cab together and Sherlock just stared at John curiously.

Then he finally decided out loud, in his regular quick way of speaking, "More than two years. But you weren't in prison. Which really doesn't leave many other options, implies you were kidnapped and kept locked away, but you aren't traumatised. How could you have only just gotten out of some solitary confinement and not be the least bit bothered by it? _How_?"

John was ready to be smug, having stumped Sherlock for the first time since they even met, but then Sherlock kept on going with his monologue.

"This must mean you have nerves of steel, that you're accustomed to danger and high stress. You knew Lestrade, so it could be you used to work for the police, but that seems doubtful, because any man with a particularly high regard for the law would not have been suggested to live with me by Lestrade, since he knows that my concern for rules is rather low." Sherlock's eyes scanned for another moment, and John knew exactly what he was seeing. John had never lost his tan line from Afghanistan, and it being much less noticeable than before wouldn't stop Sherlock noticing it. "Ah, military, alright. But then there's something more…" Sherlock was scanning John again and John knew again what Sherlock would see next. John had a lanyard that said the name of the surgery he worked at—before his disappearance, John supposed, because he probably lost the job after so long being gone—tucked beneath his jumper, where he kept his key to the surgery, the Baker Street flat, and Harry's flat. "A doctor. An army doctor," Sherlock said.

Even after so long, it was hard not to be impressed with Sherlock. Even though John knew how Sherlock was getting these assumptions, that was only because he'd known Sherlock so long. And even so, Sherlock found all these things in less than five seconds, which was in itself impressive.

So, like he would have in the beginning, he said, "That was brilliant."

John again watched as surprise flitted on Sherlock's face, gone again in a moment like all of Sherlock's emotions. "Was it?"

"Of course it was."

"That's not what most people say."

"Yes, I imagine they usually tell you to piss off. Most people don't appreciate strangers deducing things about them, I'd suppose," John said, taking this time to pay the cabbie and get out of the taxi, leaving Sherlock to wonder why John had just guessed what he was about to say and knew about his mastery of deduction. John probably shouldn't have done it, but all this time of Sherlock being a know-it-all and now John was able to shove it back in his face. It was, to say the least, appealing. More like irresistible.

Sherlock got out, and now his eyes were narrowed at John. John wanted to keep amazing Sherlock with fake-deductions, but then Sherlock might make the completely incorrect assumption that John was a genius too, which could be potentially disastrous.

So instead, he said, "You're Sherlock Holmes. You don't imagine there's a person in London that doesn't at least recognise you, do you? As it is, I also read your blog from time to time. When you post those blurbs about your solved crimes."

"You read my blog?" Sherlock asked, an excited light in his eyes.

"Not all of it," said John. "I'm not particularly interested in 200 types of cigarette ash."

"It's 243 types of tobacco ash," corrected Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

This was the moment where John remembered that when Mrs Hudson saw John, she was going to have a near heart attack. And Sherlock was supposing John didn't even know Mrs Hudson.

God, this was all so complicated.

"So, erm, you've got a landlord, I suppose?" John tried.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said. "She's actually out of town right now, visiting a sister. I figure I can talk to her when she returns about a flat mate."

"Right, okay," said John, relieved. He could figure out what to do about Mrs Hudson when she came back. One less thing to deal with.

John wondered then why he couldn't just tell Sherlock that he had deleted John from his mind—the git—and needed to undelete him right this instant. But John somehow knew he couldn't just drop that right now. He had to wait until Sherlock trusted him again.

Which could take _ages_. John sighed out loud at the irritation of it all. Like where all of John's things were, which had been in his room before he was taken away by parties unknown for reasons similarly unidentified. And John had to wonder: John had been such a huge part of Sherlock's life, so did that mean that Sherlock had huge blank-spaces in his memory that he was aware of or did Sherlock have no idea something was wrong? When people asked about John, or mentioned John's blog, what had Sherlock said?

He thought all this as Sherlock led him upstairs. John was feeling rather tired, so when Sherlock was about to start leading John about, he interrupted, saying, "I've been in this type of flat before. I know the layout. Do I get the upstairs room?"

Sherlock looked a little surprised again, but only nodded.

"Well then, I'm going to take a nap. Being detained, as you so cleverly figured out about, really takes it out of a bloke."

Before Sherlock could say anything else, John went up to his own room, and he was pleasantly surprised for the first time today.

The room was still full of his things. Nothing had been thrown out. Everything donned a layer of dust, but otherwise, the room was just how he left it.

But then John looked around. No, not _just_ how he left it. There was one thing in the room John didn't recognise. A very tall pile of paper.

John approached it, and then looked at the paper on top. It said:

_Day 450_

_Today is like every other day. Terrible and punctuated with no sudden realisations as to my blogger's whereabouts. Mycroft came yesterday and I told him to sod off. Soon Lestrade will come too, and I'll have to tell him the same. I don't want anyone to walk through my door other than John. Otherwise, it doesn't matter. In fact, writing this doesn't matter either. Originally, I was writing my inferences on the case in these sheets, but now it's just me blubbering about my feelings. Look at me, writing a diary like an adolescent girl. _

The entry cut off. John blinked down at it, and then looked down at the paper beneath. Day 449, then 448. John flipped quickly to look at the top of each paper in the stack. He went through more than twenty and not a day was skipped. So he wrote one of these every day, but then suddenly, somewhere around a year and a half after John disappeared, they stopped. This must have been the day, or just around it, when Sherlock decided he had to delete John from his mind. But what happened that made him need to do that?

John looked around the room again, realising he missed some other things that were different in the room. Little things, deductions he never would've been able to make without living with Sherlock for so long and learning from the best.

There were two mugs on the nightstand, one being John's favourite, the other being the one Sherlock usually used—or apparently _used_ to use, because it was also covered in dust, like everything else. So Sherlock had to have brought it up here at some point, but back when John lived here, Sherlock never came into his room, so this was a bit strange.

The bed was unmade, like John must've left it, but the covers were up on the left side, when John always slept on the right side of the bed.

So Sherlock had, at least once, slept in this bed. Most likely more than that. John didn't know why, but the thought of Sherlock sleeping _in_ _his_ _bed_ made John's face feel hot with embarrassment… and maybe excitement?

John banished the thought, wondering instead why Sherlock would've slept in here. Because the only reason John could think of couldn't be the real one. It was too sentimental.

But the only reason that made sense was that Sherlock had stayed in John's bed because he missed him. To remember him.

John felt himself absently smiling at the thought.

Just then, the door opened almost silently behind him. John only knew it happened because he knew Sherlock's presence by then. So John turned and the look on his face was eerily familiar: a slight smirk and a bright light in his eyes that he got when he just made a connection.

"Your name is John," he said.

John's eyebrow went up. "Fantastic deduction."

"No, it's just… Sometimes, people talk about a John to me. I never know who they're talking about."

John didn't know what to do. Say, 'yes, that's me, you idiot'? John was convinced he couldn't drop the 'you deleted me' bomb until Sherlock trusted him. So what was he supposed to say?

"Are you some really big fan or something?" Sherlock continued.

Oh. Well that'd do.

"Yup," John 'admitted' quickly. "Your work's amazing."

The light in Sherlock's eyes changed, the one he got when he was flattered. "Thank you," he said quietly, the short sentence polite and reserved, much unlike the Sherlock John knew. Maybe, even though Sherlock didn't know John anymore, he still wasn't quite the same as when the two first met. He seemed different. Like his time with John—and his time without John, for that matter—had still affected him, made him more capable of emotion than before.

So maybe John wasn't really starting from scratch.

"So why'd you really come up?" asked John. "That couldn't have been all. You don't care about your fans, that's why you delete them."

John almost covered his mouth at what had slipped. Oops.

Sherlock noticed it and looked immediately suspicious. "How'd you know I delete things?"

"I assumed," John said. "How else could you have forgotten I'm such a big fan? We've interviewed once or twice."

"Did we?" Sherlock asked, his interest slightly less than before, but still more avid than John wanted. "I don't usually agree to talk to people."

"You didn't say much. I sort of ambushed you." Even though it was a lie, John blushed as if it wasn't. "But anyway, you never answered my question."

Sherlock didn't need to be reminded which one. "You're right. I was just noticing that you're a doctor."

"Yes," John said.

"An army doctor."

God, déjà vu. "Yes," he repeated.

"And you're familiar with my methods, and obviously a glutton for danger. Come with me to my next crime scene. I could use an assistant."

"Well…" John said in mock-thought. "I suppose I don't want you to have to speak to your skull instead."

John was having too much fun talking about things he had no right knowing, because Sherlock was caught between curiosity on how John knew it and irritation at not already knowing how John knew it, not sure whether to risk his pride by asking or not.

This time, he didn't say anything.

"Be ready in five," he said curtly.

John smiled again. He decided it didn't matter much if Sherlock knew him or not, because either way, he couldn't stay away. This, the adventure of living with him, was what John craved. He couldn't ever give it up.

* * *

**Let me know what you think and what you might want to see in the story next. =]**


	3. Chapter 3

**Welcome to chapter three. Someone requested it be from Sherlock's POV, so wish granted! Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock strode from the room as soon as he told John to be ready in five minutes, but that didn't mean he didn't have ample time to look around the room which John now inhabited.

And something was very obviously amiss.

He started to see it before he even went up to the room at all.

* * *

Sherlock watched silently as John Watson, whom he'd only just met, went up to his new bedroom. No belongings, no tour needed. He knew exactly where he was going without instruction.

The entire process of meeting the man had been strange. Sherlock was leaving the flat when a short, but admittedly attractive fellow comes up, cross with him before Sherlock even knew his name. Not that he wasn't used to people being irritated with him, but usually he did something to cause it first.

John was a curious man, in Sherlock's opinion. Very assertive. He followed Sherlock angrily and went into his cab, even when Sherlock made it clear he wasn't welcome. Then he paid for the cab himself, which Sherlock also found strange. Then, in Scotland Yard, Lestrade informed Sherlock that he'd forgotten about meaning to meet John to talk about a flat share.

Though Sherlock was nonchalant about it, he'd known something wasn't right. He deleted things often, sure, but he did have limits, and he was aware of what things were important and what things weren't. Planning to meet someone in order to consider _living_ _with_ _them_ was probably in the category 'important enough not to shamelessly erase from mind forever'. Sherlock couldn't imagine why he'd delete something like that. The only reasons he deleted things were if they were unimportant, hindered his work, or if they were painful.

The prior two seemed unlikely.

Which left one thing. Sherlock must've deleted his meetings with this man for emotional reasons.

Which was nothing short of shocking to Sherlock, because it took a _lot_ to emotionally compromise him.

In fact, it was almost entirely impossible.

So what in the hell could this John Watson have done to make Sherlock so desperate that he had to delete it?

It was an unsettling question.

So Sherlock was already startled as he stared up the stairs after John, who'd said he'd planned to nap in the assumedly empty room upstairs—Sherlock never moved anything into it, so why would anything be in it?

He immediately phoned Lestrade. Usually he'd have texted, but sometimes Lestrade took a while to answer texts—just last week he'd had the nerve to take three minutes and forty seven seconds!—so he decided phoning would be easier and quicker.

"What is going on?" he demanded.

There was a short silence, then a chuckle. "Blimey, I wish I'd recorded you saying _that_."

Sherlock groaned. "I have neither the time nor patience to deal with your enduring idiocy. Answer the question. Quickly, if you please," he added, making the seemingly polite statement sound ruder than probably anyone else could ever manage.

Sherlock could almost see Lestrade rolling his eyes exasperatedly before he replied, "I don't know what you're on about. What's going on with the case, you mean?"

Playing dumb. Obvious. Well Sherlock could play along. "With John Watson," he specified.

The silence was longer this time, and Sherlock cursed silently at the fact that'd he'd decided to call as opposed to going to see him and ask in person, where Sherlock could've read in Lestrade's actions exactly what this pause meant. Without his body as a judge, Sherlock really didn't know the meaning behind Lestrade's pregnant pause. It was infuriating.

"You were supposed to meet him to discuss living together. You forgot about it, or deleted it, or something. What, is there a problem?"

"No…" Sherlock murmured. "Except I've been having huge chunks of memory loss lately and now this man I don't remember appears…"

"Memory loss?" Lestrade said, concern in his voice—or at least Lestrade was feigning concern pretty well. "You're not back on… well, you know?"

"Cocaine?" Sherlock specified blandly. "No need to mince words."

Lestrade ignored Sherlock's rudeness, as per usual. "Because if you are, I can't have you working with the Met until you're clean again. Those have been the specifications since the beginning, Sherlock, you know—"

"Lestrade," Sherlock cut in, "I am _clean_."

"Then why would you be forgetting things?"

Lestrade sounded far too innocent. He was hiding something. Sherlock normally wouldn't have told Lestrade about his lack of memory of late at all, except he knew it would give him some insight into what was going on. He knew now that whatever it was, Lestrade was in on it.

Who the _hell_ was John Watson? Why did Sherlock have an overwhelming feeling there was more to him than he originally suspected?

Sherlock had the answer to that too. If he had a feeling there was more to John than it seemed, then there probably was. Simple as that.

And so, after some thinking, Sherlock bounded up the steps, going into John's room. He hung up on Lestrade as he went up the steps, having the information he needed. Lestrade probably wouldn't think much of Sherlock hanging up (Sherlock did it frequently, sometimes in the middle of sentences).

He carefully kept his face blank as he noticed that the room was already full of… things. John's things? Had John already moved in and Sherlock deleted that too? How was that possible?

Sherlock didn't let the train of thought distract him for more than a moment. John turned, even though Sherlock had entered silently, the moment Sherlock came in.

Sherlock, again, didn't waste time being confused by it. "Your name is John," he said.

"Fantastic deduction."

Oh, was he a funny one then? Just _brilliant_, he thought dryly. But Sherlock had a plan. Something was going on, and he intended to figure it out. "No, it's just… Sometimes, people talk about a John to me. I never know who they're talking about." Sherlock paused for just long enough for John to look panicked. Yes, he knew something. What were this man and Lestrade up to? But Sherlock then continued, saying, "Are you some really big fan or something?"

John was obviously relieved when he replied much too hurriedly, "Yup, your work's amazing."

And Sherlock really couldn't tell you why, but even though this man's response had been a quick cover-up in some ways, the obvious honesty in his words, and the reverence in his eyes, truly pleased Sherlock. It surprised him enough that he interrupted his plan for enough time to say, "Thank you."

And it surprised Sherlock more how pleased John looked to receive the 'thank you' at all. His dark sapphire eyes glowed and he bit back a smile. What smile Sherlock was still able to catch warmed his chest a little.

Sherlock mentally shook himself. _Focus_, he thought firmly.

John Watson was trouble, that much was obvious.

John spoke again. "So why'd you really come up? That couldn't have been all. You don't care about your fans, that's why you delete them."

And there it was, Sherlock thought, only just able to keep the smug look off of his face, replacing it instead with a guarded one. John knew about Sherlock's ability to delete things. The pieces were in place. John was someone Sherlock had deleted, that much was obvious. But the question was, why had he done so, and how much needed to be deleted to get rid of him entirely? This one man couldn't account for all the blank spots in his memory. It just wasn't possible.

"How'd you know I delete things?" Sherlock asked, keeping the mistrust firmly in place on his face, even though he wanted to smirk in triumph at his discovery. Manipulating people with words—it was just too easy.

Sherlock also had to keep from looking satisfied when he saw John struggling to think of a proper response. But John was apparently good under pressure—and not a bad liar either. "I assumed. How else could you have forgotten I'm such a big fan? We've interviewed once or twice."

No, not bad at all. Were Sherlock ordinary, maybe he'd've been fooled.

As it were, Sherlock Holmes was far from ordinary.

But he still replied, "Did we? I don't usually agree to talk to people."

"You didn't say much. I sort of ambushed you." John flushed hard, and Sherlock actually did show surprise for a moment, but too quickly for someone as unobservant as John to notice. If it was a lie, why would John be blushing about it? Was it close to the truth? Did it remind him of something he and Sherlock had done before?

Sherlock was wishing for the first time he was able to un-delete things from his mind, because not knowing who John was, who he had once been to Sherlock, was driving him mad.

John continued a moment later, after his inexplicable embarrassment had worn off, "But anyway, you never answered my question."

Sherlock couldn't answer the question honestly. 'Well, I actually came up in order to trick you into admitting that you are a deleted person from my past' just wasn't going to work.

So he improvised. "You're right. I was just noticing that you're a doctor."

"Yes," John said dryly.

"An army doctor," Sherlock continued.

"Yes," John said again, and Sherlock wondered why he looked amused momentarily.

He shoved the thought away, and he kept on saying the first thing that came to mind. "And you're familiar with my methods, and obviously a glutton for danger. Come with me to my next crime scene. I could use an assistant."

He realised after he said it that it might not be a horrible arrangement. He _had_ been wanting an assistant. Anyone would after trying to suffer through working with Anderson for a minute or two.

That amused glint was shining in John's eyes again, and Sherlock's curiosity burned hot, only for him to shove it back down. He needed to solve this mystery soon or he'd really go mental.

"Well…" John finally said, "I suppose I don't want you to have to speak to your skull instead."

See, more proof that John knew Sherlock better than he was letting on.

What had John done to deserve getting deleted?

Sherlock was getting more and more irritated by not already knowing these answers every moment. So he said, in irritation, "Be ready in five," before walking out of the room.

But not before noticing a mug on the side table, a dark blue one. The one Sherlock always used to use. Sherlock had been missing that thing for months. How had it gotten up here?

And then the mug next to it... it had stripes... and it looked strangely familiar, but also completely foreign.

The sooner Sherlock figured this all out, the better.

* * *

With all of it together, Sherlock knew several things for certain: at some point, John Watson had known him reasonably well. Well enough to know about deletion, suspect Sherlock's entrance into a room without warning, know about his skull. Things that weren't on the website, that he could only learn by directly interacting with Sherlock himself. Sherlock knew that he had felt the need to delete John, which meant something of great import must have happened. Lestrade knew John, and knew about the deletion, but he was keeping quiet, most likely at John's request.

And Sherlock also knew that even though he hardly knew John, he felt this pull towards him. Like he kind of trusted the man, even though Sherlock was aware the doctor was hiding something from him.

Which was silly, but undeniably true.

So what didn't he know? He didn't know how well John really knew him. He didn't know how well Lestrade and John knew each other either, but he presumed fairly well. He didn't know how Sherlock could have known John, or how the man could've gotten so far under his skin as to make Sherlock feel compelled to remove him from his mind for good.

And he really, really didn't know why every time John stood close to him, his heart thudded painfully harder than usual. Why every time he spoke, Sherlock hung on his every word, as if John weren't just ordinary. Why looking at him made his stomach do flips and tie itself into knots, making himself feel nauseous.

John Watson, in short, made Sherlock feel like a pre-teen girl with a crush, and Sherlock had no idea why he would feel that way.

And that was probably the most frightening part of all.

* * *

**You all thought John actually fooled Sherlock during that conversation, didn't you? HA! In John's dreams. **

**Well, I think John has very different dreams about Sherlock, but hey, that's a different matter entirely. **

**Let me know what you all think! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**This chapter is shorter than the others as well. I just wanted to write this now really bad but don't quite know what'll happen next, so I'm just posting this segment. **

**So I'm trying something new here, because I love Lestrade and his existence. I've read a lot of stories where people portray him as cold and kind of stupid, but I don't think that's Lestrade at all. He seems to me the only person who can handle the Holmes boys (though he's never met Mycroft in the show, but hey, that doesn't stop anyone from writing as if they've met) other than John Watson, which makes him cool in my book. There be some hints of Mystrade ahead. Sorry if you hate that. I hated it a week ago. Oh, how things change.**

**Also, ****_Cool Aunt Susie_****, you do not accept PMs, so I didn't know how else to say something to you but here. Thank you for that quote in your review you left. It was just what I needed right now. :)**

**Anyway, lots of author's notes. Back to the story!**

* * *

Lestrade was at his desk, waiting for the inevitable call. He probably could have called himself, but there was no point. _He_ would call, if Lestrade waited long enough. He always knew when something important had happened, though Lestrade shuddered to know exactly _how_ he knew everything all the time.

In some ways, he was much like his brother. (Though Lestrade would probably find himself in the bottom of the ocean with a ball and chain attached to his ankle if he ever said that out loud.)

The calls always made Lestrade inexplicably nervous. But not just a little nervous. He couldn't eat for hours beforehand or he might hack it up again. His palms would sweat. No one could actually get anything that made any sense out of his mouth.

And he should have called an hour ago, the moment Sherlock and John left his office. That made him more nervous. What was taking him so long?

The phone rang and Lestrade kept himself from answering on the first ring. He needed to calm himself down anyway. God, what was it about him that made Lestrade's mouth so dry?

Probably because talking to him was like talking to the entire British government all at once. Or at least that's what Sherlock said, and Lestrade trusted Sherlock's judgment on most things.

Lestrade took a breath and answered on the fourth ring, then thought viciously, _now act natural, you idiot. It's just Mycroft. _

"Something's happened."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. This was how it always happened. He'd be nervous for the call, but then when he actually did call, Lestrade immediately became irritated by his… Holmes-ness. "As always, it's nice to hear from you too," he said dryly.

"What, would you rather engage in small talk about the weather, or about how your wife has again left the house, possibly for good this time?"

Lestrade was quiet for a moment has his knuckles clenched in frustration. The Holmes boys just _loved_ to bring up his dissolving marriage, the one that was more like an on and off fling nowadays. But yes, just a week earlier, he'd woken up not to his wife on the other side of the bed, but a manila folder containing divorce papers. He did suspect it really was the end, but he didn't particularly want to talk to Mycroft Holmes about it.

"Fine, skip the small-talk then, Mycroft."

"John's reappeared suddenly," said Mycroft, ignoring the anger in Lestrade's voice.

Lestrade let the frustration go when the conversation turned the way he'd been figuring it would, favouring a business-like tone. "Yeah, but he's got no idea where he's been."

"Fortunately, I do."

Lestrade was quiet a moment. "You know where he's been?"

"Yes, now I do. The clue Sherlock was waiting so long for finally surfaced, only my dear stupid brother deleted John from his memory before he could see it. He'd know the truth too, probably quicker than I had, if he hadn't deleted John."

"Well then get on with it," Lestrade said impatiently, "What happened?"

"You remember that my brother was…" Mycroft paused for a long moment, and in that moment, Lestrade remembered why he tolerated him… even sort of liked him a little. Because, just like Sherlock, he was capable of caring, but he hated showing it. When he'd thought Sherlock was dead, he'd been genuinely upset about it. Especially considering that he gave Moriarty the fuel to make it happen. Talking about it was hard for Mycroft, but he pretended it wasn't. He covered his pause by clearing his throat, then continued, "My brother was gone for two years and four months. On the dot."

"Okay…" Lestrade prompted.

"And so was John. Two years and four months _exactly_."

"And that can't be a coincidence?"

Lestrade heard a short, slightly patronising chuckle from the other end of the line. "No, it can't. It means… Moriarty is back."

"_Back_? He bloody shot himself in the face!"

He yelled it louder than he intended, because a few people were looking over their cubicles, through the glass walls of his office, at him in surprise.

Mycroft wasn't fazed by the reaction. He only said, "Yes, and Sherlock jumped off a building."

"A gun would be harder to dodge."

"Than the ground? Hardly. No, I always figured that if Sherlock survived, so did Moriarty."

"So… you think Moriarty took John."

"I'm nearly positive."

"But why? What's the point?"

"Because everything's a _game_ with him. John had to live without Sherlock for two years and four months. We both saw what that did to him. So Moriarty must've thought it might be… _fun_ to see how Sherlock would do without John for the same amount of time."

"That's _sick_," Lestrade muttered.

"Yes, Gregory, I actually agree with you. Especially since my brother handled it quite horribly, in the end. Sherlock was better at being dead himself than he was at living without John."

Lestrade didn't speak for a long moment. Then he said, "You know Sherlock's…"

"In love with John Watson? Oh yes, quite aware. I never thought I'd see the day one of the Holmes brothers would fall in love."

"Maybe both of you will, eventually."

Lestrade hadn't meant to say it, and once he did he actually hit himself in the forehead. Why would he ever say something like that to Mycroft Holmes, of all people? Surely, the thought of love repelled him.

But all Mycroft said was, "Yes, maybe."

They spoke for a few more minutes, mostly about how to restart the search for Moriarty. It'd be impossible to get the Yard in on it yet, seeing as he had no actual proof, other than the word of a Holmes—which meant more than it probably should have in Lestrade's book.

"Speak of the devils," Mycroft said in the middle of one of Lestrade's sentences. "Sherlock and John are on their way over. Sherlock wants to inform you that he's found a new partner in crime-solving."

"How do you always _know_ that?" Lestrade marveled.

"I have eyes everywhere, Gregory. It'd do you well to remember that."

Lestrade found himself nervous again. "When you say _everywhere_…"

"Oh, let your imagination wander. You still won't be able to imagine quite how much I see."

The line went dead, and Lestrade shook his head. He never thought he'd find a man who was more of a drama-queen than Sherlock. But, alas, he'd been wrong about that. Leave it to a Holmes to be surprising all the time. Just when you think you understand one of them, they do something completely out of character. Like his response to Lestrade saying he might someday fall in love.

But Lestrade could spend days and days trying to understand those two men, and it'd all come out to nothing anyway. There was no point wasting his time on it, so he returned silently to the problem at hand.

Basically, Moriarty was back. Playing with Sherlock's head, as always. Why? Just because he was crazy, Lestrade supposed, because he didn't have a better answer as to why Sherlock was so intriguing to him. Because they were both geniuses? Also possible.

But either way, an uncatchable criminal mastermind has come back from the dead and the only person who understood him, really understood him, was Sherlock Holmes.

But they couldn't involve him because their only proof he's back was based on evidence he deleted from his mind, and they couldn't just _tell_ him he deleted his roommate, best friend, and possible lover from his mind after suffering crippling grief for more than a year. Even Lestrade knew they had to be more sensitive than that.

But how would they eventually get Sherlock in on the search? If only Lestrade knew.

Lestrade sighed out loud. This was all so complicated.

There really was only one option. They'd have to figure out how to un-delete the information. With a brain like Sherlock's, it had to be possible.

But how would they do it?

And how long would it take?

And, most importantly, how long did they have before Moriarty struck again?

Oh, this was just _perfect_.

* * *

**Hope it was enjoyable! Let me know what you think, pretty please!**


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock and John walked into Scotland Yard and went up to Greg Lestrade's office. Sherlock was silent, pensive, like he usually was. John was able to fool himself that everything was normal for a few moments.

In fact, for a moment, things seemed very ordinary indeed, because John found himself, as he often did, marveling at his best friend. Something about the way he carried himself, the aura around him, it was kind of awe-inducing. To anyone else, maybe it would just be intimidating, but to John, it was mystifying.

So mystifying, in fact, that John didn't even notice at first when Sherlock noticed him staring and started staring right back. It took a full ten seconds before he saw that Sherlock's eyes, gray-blue at the moment, were trained on him.

"Is something interesting?" Sherlock asked.

"Erm… no, I was just thinking, and I happened to be looking in your direction," John said lamely.

"If you're as much of a fan as you seem, you should know that lying to me is futile."

John rolled his eyes. "Well then, you're just going to have to drive yourself mad wondering why I was looking at you."

"I'm sure I could figure it out," Sherlock said.

"Maybe," John agreed irritably, "but you don't actually care enough to take the time, do you?"

John realised he shouldn't have said that the moment it passed his lips, because that sounded an awful lot like a challenge, and that meant Sherlock was going to go out of his way to deduce John's reasoning for staring at him.

Or so he thought. Instead, the lift _pinged_ open and Sherlock swiftly walked out without so much as a backwards glance. John followed, rolling his eyes once more. So damn dramatic all the time.

As they walked through, people on the floor still looked at John in awe, but maybe Lestrade had explained that they weren't to mention it, because nobody spoke to him. Because they were so surprised to see John again, none of them even had time to say anything snide to Sherlock.

Sherlock walked into the office without knocking, but then stopped, looking at Lestrade with a cursory gaze.

And after a moment, even John could tell what Sherlock was looking at. Lestrade looked off. Nervous. Frightened. Something had happened.

But then, Sherlock laughed. It sounded out of place, coming out of his throat, and with how low it was, it sounded strangely close to a stereotypical villain's laugh.

"What're you doing talking to Mycroft?" he asked.

John looked up to Sherlock in surprise for a moment, then back to Lestrade, sitting behind his desk. The look on his face now showed Sherlock's guess was right.

"I didn't know you and Mycroft even knew each other," John said. John realised, yet again, that he was talking about something he wasn't supposed to know about—Sherlock must've figured John didn't know who Mycroft was—but if Sherlock thought it strange, he didn't say anything about it.

"We started talking several years back, only ever on the phone," Lestrade admitted, almost looking ashamed. Then he looked directly at Sherlock and added, "He called for the first time soon after the Moriarty business ended."

Simultaneously, both John and Sherlock froze at the mention of the name. Lestrade could surely feel the tension rippling off of them. In fact, John realised, Sherlock could probably feel John's apprehension at the mention of the name too, probably noticed how John's fist balled tightly in fury when he heard it again, for the first time in a long time. John would have loved nothing more than to joyfully murder that man—if he could be called that. He was the reason John had to suffer through the horrid two years and four months of thinking Sherlock was dead, almost singlehandedly the cause of the worst time in John's entire life. And before all that, he'd ruined Sherlock's life, and there was nothing that pissed John Watson off more than causing Sherlock pain. Maybe because it was so hard to do, maybe because John cared about Sherlock more than he probably should have. Either way, John's life goal was to beat Jim Moriarty to death. It was almost a shame he was already dead, because a bullet to the mouth was far too kind a death for him.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade said, his tone suddenly careful—maybe because he noticed he'd unintentionally pissed both Sherlock and John off, "I've been thinking."

"A waste of time for you, probably."

Lestrade completely ignored the slight. "If you survived that whole… ordeal… then who says Moriarty didn't too?"

Oh, John really didn't like that. He clenched his jaw hard, but said nothing.

Sherlock was quiet for only a moment. "I have considered that. But if he were, wouldn't he have shown himself somehow? Pulled some great crime?"

"Maybe he learned his lesson," Lestrade said.

"What makes you think that _now_ though?" Sherlock enquired.

"It's not like I only just thought of it today—"

"But you just _told_ me today, which is actually a bit surprising in itself. You're always worried I'll shut you down if you say something that doesn't have concrete evidence behind it, so you never come to me with anything unless you know—or at least you _think_—it's true. So something must've happened recently that made you sure that Moriarty isn't dead. And, coincidentally, you were just on the phone with my brother, and though coincidence _does_ happen from time to time, I'm willing to bet this is not one of those occasions. So what did Mycroft say to you during this phone call, exactly?"

Oh, Lestrade looked really nervous now.

Then he said, "Actually, Sherlock, down in the lab there's evidence. Go take a look."

"Why didn't you tell me that the moment I walked in?" Sherlock snapped.

"Because I wanted to chat."

Sherlock grunted and swept from the room. John was about to follow, but Lestrade met eyes with him in a way that clearly said 'stay'.

"What's _really_ going on?" John asked the moment Sherlock was out of earshot.

"That was all true… other than the evidence in the lab," said Lestrade.

"There's no evidence?"

"No. I just wanted to get him out. He makes it hard to think when he's looking at you like that."

"Yeah, I get that."

"The real reason Mycroft thinks Moriarty's back is because you were gone the exact same amount of time that Sherlock was."

John sat down. "Yeah, I already noticed that. I figured it was a coincidence."

"This, as Sherlock stated, is not one of those occasions. Or so Mycroft thinks. He thinks it was some sort of experiment, or maybe a prank. To see how Sherlock would do without you around."

John scowled. "It sounds like something he might do."

"But now do you see the problem? I can't well tell Sherlock that, seeing as he doesn't bloody remember you."

John sighed. "It hasn't even been a day and I already can't keep this up," he mumbled. "Maybe we just have to tell him. I wanted to wait until he trusted me properly—"

"But he already does," Lestrade said.

"What?"

"He does already. I can tell. Sherlock may think I'm an idiot, but I'm not actually. I know his mannerisms by now, and he already trusts you."

"But I've been lying to him ever since he thinks I met him."

"I can't explain to you why, but he does. Plus, you think Sherlock hasn't put the pieces together by now? He's got to know something's not right. Not telling him might actually make the situation worse."

John didn't have much more time to think on that, however, because Sherlock barreled out of the lift.

"There's nothing down there, Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled it like a seven year old that noticed he had no presents on Christmas.

"Yeah, I know, but you were annoying me."

Sherlock actually looked too shocked to speak for a moment, which made John smirk. Then he said, "Annoying you?"

"Yeah," Lestrade said. "You were doing that deducing thing and I'm not in the mood for it at the moment."

Sherlock was somewhere between still looking surprised and being furious. One would win out over the other any moment now, John knew, and he had a feeling Sherlock would lean towards the latter.

And, in a few moments, Sherlock's expression turned cold and John knew he'd chosen anger. "You said yesterday there was a case to work on."

"Yes," Lestrade agreed, jumping on a chance to change the subject—he'd probably intended for Sherlock to either forget he asked about Mycroft or be too stubbornly angry to keep the conversation up, and John didn't know which of them happened, but one of them certainly had. John was rather impressed that Lestrade managed it, actually. "Yes, the team's ready to go, they were only waiting for me. See, the woman—"

"Don't care much about your opinion on it. I'll make my own when I arrive," Sherlock said, already standing.

"I think you upset him," said John dryly when Sherlock was already waiting for the lift.

"Yeah, it appears so. Ready to go?"

"And pretend I don't know Sherlock some more? Oh yeah, sounds fun."

John managed not to talk about anything he wasn't supposed to know about for the five minutes they were at the crime scene. Mostly because he'd had no time to talk. Sherlock got there, saw the dead woman, and said it was 'obvious' that she'd been suffocated with a plastic bag, and then after another moment, told them the place where the man who'd done it worked. They were looking for someone who was more than two metres tall, and there weren't many people that height working at a market, so the Yard surely didn't need help finishing that one off.

Then, before anyone had time to say anything at all, Sherlock strode out of the building, John just barely keeping up.

"That was a good one in there," said John, trying for small talk.

Usually, Sherlock would be happy that he was being praised, but he completely ignored John, looking broody. Never try to talk to Sherlock when he's thinking. John decided not to try again.

They got back to the flat and Sherlock was silent again as he paced the front room. John was used to this behaviour, so he went into the kitchen and pretended to look around for tea and a mug, because Sherlock might notice if he knew exactly where to find them on his first try.

"Tea?" John asked over his shoulder.

"Who are you?"

"What? I thought we already passed introductions," John said, concentrating on filling the kettle with water.

"I mean, who are you _to_ _me_?"

John was about to say something snarky when he heard a sound that he would recognise anywhere.

The safety being turned off on his own gun.

John looked over to Sherlock, careful not to move anything but his head. Sherlock was calmly pointing a gun at John's face from a few metres away.

"Sherlock, have you gone bloody mad?" John hissed.

"The way you reacted to Moriarty is what made me realise it. You know me much better than you're letting on, I knew that already, but the mention of his name made you tense. Is that because you were hoping Lestrade didn't know Moriarty was alive? Are you working for Moriarty? _Are_ _you_?"

John couldn't think of a worse thing to be accused of. "No! No, of course not!" It sounded defensive and angry, not what he'd intended, but Sherlock'd know he wasn't lying... right?

Sherlock continued to glare, and the gun was still pointed at John. "Then I ask again, _who_ _are_ _you_?"

* * *

**Come on, John, you honestly think you can hide something from Sherlock for more than a day? Silly John.**

**I thought it might be fun to add a teensy cliffhanger here. Probably I'm reading too much Percy Jackson and Rick Riordan is rubbing off on me, since he's the Troll King of cliffhangers. **

**Anywho, let me know what you think.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Because people were mad I cliffhung them, I added another chapter today (even though it's shorter than my others). I'm bad at cliffhangers because then I feel bad for making people wait. As a side note, I post my chapters unedited and then go back and fix them the next day, so I apologise for mistakes. I don't make a lot of them or anything, but if they're there, sorry. Anywho, enjoy!**

* * *

John was actually rather surprised Sherlock was handling this the way he was. Threatening people for information wasn't usually his style, but maybe when Moriarty was involved, he lost his head.

John lifted his hands slowly. "I'm not working for Moriarty. I'm on your side, Sherlock."

"Then tell me who you are!"

John really didn't see any other choice, not now. He'd have to tell him.

"I don't think you're going to believe me," John said.

"I'm fairly good at believing the unbelievable, actually."

"Not this, Sherlock. It'll sound like… I dunno what it'll sound like, but I'd've told you the moment I found you if I thought you'd believe a word of it. But I'll tell you now, if you really want. Just put the gun down and trust me for a moment."

John wasn't sure what he'd said right, or what Sherlock heard in his voice, but thankfully, his arm started to lower until the gun was at his side. John heard the safety turn back on.

"Now can I walk over to the sofa, or will you try to blow my brains out?"

Sherlock silently stepped to the side, putting the gun on the counter. John walked past, still slowly, and sat in the chair that was always his. Sherlock took John's lead and also sat, but he sat on the top of the chair, his feet where his bum should've been. Sherlock was never great at using furniture correctly.

John had no idea where to start. 'I'm kind of your best friend'? 'I've lived with you for years, not hours'? He was trying to quickly decide what was best to begin with, because he knew Sherlock would get impatient if he took too long.

"So it must be my original assumption," Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

"And what's your original assumption?"

"What Lestrade originally said, I suppose. That I deleted you. But the question is, how well did we actually know each other before that happened? Why did I delete you at all?"

John was so relieved, he almost felt like grinning. That was the part that he thought Sherlock wouldn't believe, the fact that John really was someone he deleted. Explaining the rest shouldn't've been too difficult. He felt much better now.

"I don't actually know why you deleted me, Sherlock, that's the thing. I was gone when it happened. Remember how you said I was in captivity for several years? You deleted me sometime when I was gone. I think about a year ago. So when I came back, I didn't understand why you didn't know who I was."

Sherlock continued to look at John quizzically, his eyes boring into John. It made him a little uncomfortable. "But you knew me well enough to know the reason I didn't recognise you was because I deleted you."

"Not at first, but quickly, yeah. Greg told me that you were acting like you didn't know who I was, so that's when I guessed it."

"So what were you really doing there anyway? You got out of captivity and the first thing you did was come see me?"

John sighed. "I don't really have anyone else to see. Plus, I live here."

Sherlock nodded. "That explains a lot. You knowing the flat's layout, the fact that the upstairs room already had all your things in it."

"Yeah," John agreed.

"That mug up there," Sherlock added before John could say anything. "I noticed two mugs. One of them was one I've been missing for a long time. The other…" John was surprised at the look on Sherlock's face, like he was straining to remember something. It almost looked like he was in pain for a moment, actually. John only just kept his arms from fluttering over him worriedly. "The other mug is yours," Sherlock said.

"You remember it?" John asked enthusiastically.

"No. That's why I know it must be yours. When I looked at it briefly earlier, it was frustratingly unfamiliar, but it also nagged at me, like I _should_ have known it. So it was yours?"

John nodded. "I always used it, unless I forgot it next to my bed."

"And I must have left mine up there… did I do that often?" Sherlock was obviously frustrated at not knowing these things already, but John was partially just relieved that Sherlock was believing him so far.

"No," John said carefully. "I thought it was odd it was up there at all. You never came into my room before… you left it there after I was taken."

"How long did you live here?"

"Since… gosh, it's been seven years since I moved in."

Sherlock looked dumbfounded. John almost expected his jaw to drop. He quickly composed himself. "I never thought I could live with someone that long. Either I would grate against their nerves or they'd grate against mine."

"Well, four of those years we weren't _both_ living here. I was gone for two years, and you were too."

"After the fall," Sherlock said. "You lived here that whole time?"

John felt his left hand get shaky at the thought, and he clenched his fist, grinding his teeth. God, those two years…

"Not the whole time. For a bit, I moved out, because I couldn't stand…" John went quiet again. Having Sherlock guess his feelings was better than flat out telling them like this. Sherlock looked too interested, too curious. It was strange and uncomfortable. "I lived here most of that time, yeah," John finished.

"I don't understand," Sherlock muttered, grabbing his hair in frustration. "Why would I delete you? It seems we were… rather close."

John let out a dark chuckle, running his hand through his hair and looking at the floor. "Yeah, yeah we were." It made John sad to say it in the past tense. Could they build that close of a friendship twice? Somehow that seemed unlikely.

John looked up and Sherlock was looking at him too closely again, watching his every movement. John wondered if everything he was feeling was clear on his face. For Sherlock, almost definitely it was. It made John's ears go red.

"Sherlock… you're my best friend. Kind of my only friend, now. After I started solving cases with you, I neglected the few friends I still had after I got back from Afghanistan. And now you don't even remember me."

Sherlock still was looking at John silently, that brooding look on his face. Then he spoke suddenly, in that quick way he did when he was solving a puzzle. "We were friends and I deleted you? It makes no sense. Why would I do that, _why_?"

"I really wish I knew, Sherlock," John mumbled.

"And you worked with me?"

"Yeah. I gave my medical opinion, when I could, but it's not like I'm anywhere near as smart as you. Sometimes I thought you just liked the company. And with me there being the medical expert, you could completely ignore Anderson," John added, and Sherlock let out a small smile.

"Lestrade knows I deleted you too."

John nodded. "He seems to have a guess. As to why you did it, I mean."

"He does?" Sherlock said sharply. "What does he think?"

"He thinks…" John shrugged. "I dunno, he seems to think you just really missed me or something. I guess the day you did it, he'd only just come to talk to you. He didn't give me any details, but he said you were pretty messed up."

"But why would I let someone affect me that much?" Sherlock muttered, obviously to himself.

John sighed. Why _had_ Sherlock let John affect him so much? John didn't understand what could've happened in Sherlock's head while John was gone, but obviously _something_ changed.

"Can't you… you know, un-delete things?"

Sherlock suddenly jumped up, quickly enough that John jumped. "That's it! I just go into my mind palace and I find it! It can't just be _gone_. I had to have done _something_ with it. Maybe I moved it deeper inside or something."

"Have you ever tried to un-delete something before?" John asked.

"I've never had occasion." Then Sherlock sat down and his face went completely blank. John expected him to kick John out like he normally did when he went into his mind palace, but he just sat down without another word. John was excited he hadn't been told to leave, because this was one thing he'd never seen before.

Then again though, it wasn't terrible eventful. John was surprised his eyes were open, but otherwise, he just sat there.

At first. Then Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and his arms went up, were moving… almost like he was pushing things out of the way. Was this mind palace actually a physical place in his mind? To have a brain like that… it was just strange to watch.

Then Sherlock inhaled sharply, his eyes shifting around in surprise. He looked around like that for another few seconds, and then his eyes shut for a moment and reopened, focusing on John.

"Well? Do I look familiar?" John asked with a smirk.

Sherlock stood and begun to pace. "It's all been burnt down."

"Burnt down? What has?"

"There's this huge area, John, it's _huge_. I didn't know I could have that big of an area for anything, and it was all for you… but I burnt it down."

"But it's all in your mind? Can't you just un-burn it?"

"It doesn't work that way," Sherlock said quickly, absently, but then continued, "I burned it? I've never burned something before. Why did I do that? How badly did I need this damaged?" He paused, stopped walking for a moment. "I need to see Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"I… erm, okay," John muttered. "Want me to come?"

"No."

And Sherlock was out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

**It's like every chapter keeps getting shorter. Sorry about that. I'm posting new chapters as fast as I can, so every time I finish a scene, I just publish it instead of putting many scenes together and making a decent length chapter. **

* * *

Lestrade was sitting in his office, staring out the window. No work left to do, but absolutely no reason to go home. Empty house, empty bed. Maybe he'd go to a pub. Maybe he'd stay at the office all night. He wasn't sure, but he didn't want to be in his house, he absolutely knew that.

His phone rang. He looked over to it in surprise. He wasn't expecting any calls. But he picked it up quickly anyhow. "Lestrade," he answered blandly.

"You look pondersome, Gregory. Is something the matter?"

Lestrade didn't know how to feel, at first. Why did he always know what he was doing? Why did he care? He didn't bother to ask either question, since he wouldn't get an answer. He decided after a moment he was irritated. "You _kindly_ reminded me of my failed marriage earlier today. Otherwise, I'm great."

"Sometimes I'm not sure what things not to say, that much is true."

"A family trait."

A silence. Lestrade smiled dryly in success at getting to Mycroft.

"Maybe that's true as well. But I called for a reason."

"Something about Sherlock?"

"Well, he is on his way to your office right now, but no, not about Sherlock."

"He's coming here?"

"He'll be there in five minutes," Mycroft confirmed.

Lestrade could've taken the time to wonder why Sherlock was coming when there was no case to work on, but Mycroft's mysterious call interested him more. "But then why did you actually call?"

More silence. "Well," Mycroft finally said. "I've had what people call 'a long day'. I'm feeling rather grumpy, honestly, and I was thinking of going out."

"Okay…" Lestrade said. His anger was lost to confusion now.

"But I, as you might be able to guess, don't usually frequent… civilian hang-outs, if you will."

"So pubs?" Lestrade specified.

"That's an example."

More quiet before Lestrade said, "I still don't understand why you called."

"Well, I knew you were having a long day as well, and I thought… maybe you could show me the best places to go."

Lestrade blinked a few times, opening his mouth and closing it again. "You want to… go out to a pub with me."

"I suppose so, yes."

Lestrade would never have guessed he'd get this call.

But what surprised him more than the conversation itself was the fact that he kind of liked the idea.

Lestrade decided not to overthink it. He wanted to go, so he would. "Yeah, okay, yeah. Want to meet—"

"I'll meet you outside Scotland Yard. When Sherlock's gone."

"Don't you get bored of watching me?" Lestrade joked.

"Oddly enough, no. Not really."

Lestrade was surprised into silence again by this answer. He probably should've been irritated or upset or creeped out by Mycroft's admission that he watched him. Instead, he said, "Why not?"

"I'm not sure. I hope to find that out tonight. See you in about a half hour."

Lestrade nodded, as if Mycroft could see it—and probably he could. And then the line went dead. Lestrade put the phone down, his mouth dry. He started straightening things on his desk just for something to do.

Then the lift came up to the floor and Sherlock burst into the room dramatically like always. He looked about to say something, but then stopped and tilted his head slightly. Lestrade grit his teeth, knowing a deduction was coming.

"You've been asked on a date."

Lestrade blinked hard. "No! No, no, no. Not a date."

"Okay, you've been asked on a date and you're ashamed you want to go."

"It's not a date, Sherlock."

"Yes it is."

"Sherlock… it's a bloke. So it's not a date."

"It being a bloke says less about my deductive skills and more about your sexual orientation, don't you think?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, deciding to let this one go. Mentioning it was Mycroft wasn't going to help the situation. "What do you want?"

Sherlock looked about to keep on that subject, but Sherlock was selfish at heart and would hold his issues above Lestrade's any day. So he sat down across from Lestrade's desk—more perched, so he was kneeling on his haunches, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. How a grown man managed to sit like a child so easily was beyond Lestrade.

"Tell me what happened the day I deleted John."

Lestrade leaned forward quickly, his interest pushing away his irritation. "You know?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I'd already half-guessed. Mostly guessed, really, but I didn't know how to force John to tell me the truth."

Lestrade wasn't sure he wanted the answer to his next question, but he asked anyway. "And how did you?"

"Held him at gunpoint and accused him of working for Moriarty," Sherlock said, not at all concerned about admitting this to a police officer.

"You—you _what_? Why?"

"Pressure makes people speak quickly."

"You're unbelievable."

"Not the point. He said you have a theory of why I deleted him."

Lestrade considered sugar-coating his thoughts, but then he thought about the fact that Sherlock would never do the same for him, and decided to just come right out with it. "It's not just a theory. I know why you did it. I just didn't want to talk to John about it."

"You think I missed him so much I needed to burn his memories away?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"I've never cared that much about anything. Not half that much. It must've been something else."

"You don't remember what you were like when he was gone, Sherlock. If you could look at it, you'd understand."

"I couldn't've been that bad," Sherlock insisted.

"Whatever 'that bad' means, you were worse. You didn't shower, or shave, or eat, or sleep. You didn't even work on cases. You hardly functioned at all. You just tried to figure out why John vanished, every hour of the day, and got nowhere."

Sherlock was obviously trying to wrap his head around that. Maybe he was able to quickly, or maybe he gave up, because after a moment, he said, "But something must've changed the day I did it. Something had to have for me to do something so drastic."

Lestrade licked his lips a moment. Maybe he really did need to be careful what he said here. Something _had_ changed: Lestrade told Sherlock that he thought he was in love with John. But Lestrade couldn't well say that. You couldn't just tell someone they were in love with someone else, especially not when they didn't remember the feelings. "That's what confuses me, actually," Lestrade went with. "Everything was pretty much the same. You were as bad as always… and then I sort of yelled at you, told you that John was gone for good and that you needed to forget him… then I stormed out and came back in a moment later… and you were crying."

Sherlock's face was completely blank with incomprehension. "Crying."

"Yes. Sobbing, really. I'd really upset you somehow, I guess. And I sat with you 'til you finished. God, it might've been an hour. And then, when you were calm again, you told me to get out. The next day, I mentioned John and you didn't know what I was talking about."

Sherlock was quiet for a good thirty seconds this time. Lestrade wondered how many conclusions Sherlock could come to, thinking silently for that long. Then he said, "And what else did you say?"

"What?"

"Oh, you know I loathe repeating myself."

"What else did I say when?"

Sherlock grunted in irritation, then specified, "You said you told me John was gone and that I needed to forget him. You were censoring yourself, omitting something you said to me. Just telling me to forget him wouldn't be enough for me to delete him."

How did Sherlock know everything all the damn time? It was annoying.

"I'm not sure you want to know," Lestrade said. "If it affected you that much last time…"

"Lestrade, tell me."

Lestrade got frustrated then, puffing out his chest and standing. "No. I won't tell you just because you bully me into it. I won't put you through that twice. If you want to know the truth about your life with John Watson, you'll have to figure it out on your own."

"But I burnt it all down!"

Lestrade didn't know what he meant by 'burnt it', but he was too irritated to ask. "Then figure it out some other way! You were an idiot and deleted your best friend, so _you_ fix it, if you're so bloody good at everything."

He walked past Sherlock.

"Where're you going?" Sherlock demanded.

"Out on what you keep calling a date! With Mycroft!" he added to the end in his anger. Then he stormed out of the building, leaving a shocked Sherlock behind him.

* * *

**Hope you liked the new chapter! Let me know what you think! In the meantime, though, I have a lot of other Johnlocks to read on my profile, if you're interested.**

**Oh, and also, should I actually write the Mystrade date or just imply it? Is anyone interested in that? If I don't get any requests to see it, I'll skip it. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Mystrade chapter was voted for. So here it is. :] Another longer chapter this time. I had a bit of fun with the date and was even able to add plot… XD**

* * *

Lestrade walked out into the drizzle, breathing deeply to expel his sudden anger. He wasn't quite sure where it had come from. Maybe just being bossed around by Sherlock long enough made a man explode eventually. Partially, though, he'd just wanted an excuse to leave.

As he walked, though, he realised he'd never actually seen Mycroft before. But he had a feeling a man like that would be obvious to spot.

He was right. He only looked around for a few moments before he saw a man in a posh pinstriped suit and a red tie, his face partially obscured by the umbrella over his head. It was barely even sprinkling, so Lestrade probably wouldn't bother with an umbrella himself. Mycroft was leaning against a sleek black towncar.

Lestrade approached him. He didn't really look like Sherlock, other than also being tall and having blue eyes, but he did have this certain… aura about him. Like he was something more than the ordinary man. Like he was someone you really didn't want to get on the bad side of. That feeling was probably double as bad as it was with Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock was cleverer, but Mycroft was easily more powerful. Capable of everything. Lestrade had already known that, but he could now see it in his stance, feel it emanating from him. It made him a little nervous.

He didn't really know whether to introduce himself—since they'd never technically met—or act as if they were friends. Mycroft made deciding unnecessary by speaking.

"Has my brother angered you?" asked Mycroft.

"He has a way of doing that, yeah."

"Which makes my idea all the more appealing, correct?"

"I suppose so."

Mycroft opened the door. "Then why don't you get in?"

Lestrade looked at the car, then back up to Mycroft. "When's the last time you walked anywhere?"

He frowned, which made him look older, more bitter. "A very long while. Why do you ask?"

"Because we're walking," Lestrade decided.

"But it's raining."

"It's misting," Lestrade said. "You won't melt, Myc."

"Myc?"

Lestrade blinked at his use of nickname. "Oh. Erm, is that alright?"

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. "I suppose so."

"Well come on, then." He grabbed Mycroft's wrist and started tugging.

"What if I don't want to walk?" asked Mycroft.

Lestrade let go. "Then drive the three blocks it takes to get there, I don't care. But what I need right now is a stroll."

Lestrade turned around and began to walk. Within ten seconds, there was a shadow over his head and the light rain stopped hitting him as Mycroft's umbrella was extended over both their heads.

"Do you take 'strolls' often?"

"Wouldn't you know? You know everything."

"I don't watch you _every_ moment."

"You know, admitting you watch someone regularly might bother some people," Lestrade mentioned.

"Yes, I'm aware. Which is another curious thing about you. You don't seem all that bothered."

Lestrade shrugged. "I guess the fact that anyone's even a bit interested in me is almost flattering. Most people don't give a damn about me as long as I do what I'm supposed to do. Almost like I'm an invisible force doing shit for everyone, you know? But once I fuck up, then everyone's paying attention. With Sherlock I'm too trusting, with my wife I wasn't… I don't know, interesting enough? I try, I really do, but it seems I do everything wrong." Lestrade paused for a moment, only just realising he'd said all these things out loud. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, "You probably don't care at all, do you?"

He looked up and was a little surprised to have Mycroft's keen eyes intently fixed on him. "I'm actually quite interested," he said earnestly.

"But I still don't get why."

Mycroft looked ahead again. "I've watched you often. More than the average person. And still… I feel I don't really know anything about you. You're a moral man, have faith in what the law can do… but you also work with Sherlock Holmes, which shows at least a bit of the opposite sentiment. You're faithful and kind and many good qualities in men… but like you said, nobody ever seems to notice you. I suppose I don't understand where my interest derived from either. But either way, you intrigue me."

To intrigue a man like Mycroft Holmes seemed no small feat, and Lestrade found himself flattered again, even when he felt on the surface that it should've made him more uncomfortable than pleased.

They arrived to the pub and Lestrade opened the door, holding it open for Mycroft to step through. He looked slightly surprised by the gesture for half a moment, but then nodded and stepped through. The place was rather quiet, as it wasn't yet dark and it was a Wednesday. Lestrade walked in and headed for his favourite table.

"Greg!" called the man from behind the bar. "How are ya, then?"

"Hanging in there," Lestrade said with a wave.

"Your usual?"

"Sure, Bill, thanks. And another half for my friend Myc here."

"Sure thing."

They sat down and Lestrade was amused by the fact that Mycroft looked a bit uncomfortable. Lestrade had hoped no one would sit near them, but then a tall bloke sat in the booth behind them. He figured it didn't matter much anyway. How private could things get with Mycroft?

"So you don't walk places, I already get that. But when's the last time you've been in a… what'd you call it, a civilian hang-out?"

"Such as this? Never."

Lestrade's mouth fell open. "You've never been to a pub?"

"No. Never felt the need to."

"Then why today?"

"Another unanswered question," Mycroft said. "I hope a drink or two will lubricate my mental passages enough to tell me that."

"What do you usually even drink?"

"Wine."

"Have you ever even had a beer?"

Mycroft shook his head.

Lestrade leaned around the booth and called, "Oi, Bill! Just get me two pints, will you?"

"Ah, real bad day then, is it?"

"A bit, yeah. Just keep the tab open."

Bill came over a moment later with two pints of ale and Lestrade slid one over to Mycroft, who looked at it distrustfully, like it might bite him.

"It's Bass Ale," Lestrade said, as if the name would mean anything to Mycroft.

He gingerly picked it up and took a sip. Lestrade bit off a chuckle. Mycroft pursed his lips, as if deciding whether he liked it, and then took another, longer one.

"It's acceptable?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied.

"So what's bad about your day, then?" Lestrade asked.

"Couldn't tell you any of it," Mycroft said. "Classified."

"Is there anything in your life that isn't classified?"

"Not much, no."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but was still amused watching Mycroft's discomfort. He was actually drinking fairly quickly, and before Lestrade knew it, the first and second pints were gone and they were halfway through the third.

Lestrade hadn't really considered that, as Mycroft didn't drink often, he might actually be a lightweight… until he noticed Mycroft's entire persona had shifted. He was leaning heavily on his knuckles, his eyes half closed and an absent smile on his face. Lestrade was still trying not to laugh at him.

"This… this ale is excellent, you know that?" Mycroft asked.

"I like it," Lestrade agreed. "So, you feeling better?"

"Quite, yes."

"Are you hungry?"

"Is there food?" Mycroft asked enthusiastically.

Lestrade laughed this time, not able to stop himself. "Yes, there's food." He handed Mycroft the menu, who looked through it more excitedly than Lestrade would've expected him to.

"I've been on a diet for… god, ten years now. I haven't had anything good in as long as I can remember."

"Why all the dieting?"

"Because I was fat," Mycroft said matter-of-factly. "I caved a little a few years back, when Sherlock was gone, but I've been good ever since."

"And you're about to cave again?"

"Oh, most definitely yes," Mycroft said, and Lestrade laughed again. Then Mycroft's eyes nearly popped out of his head looking at the menu. "They have cake."

Grinning in amusement, Lestrade said, "Yeah…"

"God, I love cake. I haven't had any in fifteen years. Sometimes I like cake more than people, if I'm being honest."

"Is that even saying much? You don't seem to like people."

"I like some," Mycroft disagreed. "I just pretend not to."

"And why's that?"

"Because caring is not an advantage."

"I'm not sure that's true."

Mycroft looked up. "That's surprising, coming from you."

"What, because my wife left me? That doesn't mean I regret what we had when we had it. Being in love is the best feeling I've ever experienced."

"Maybe. I wouldn't know."

"You've never loved anyone?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"And nobody's ever loved you?" Lestrade asked more quietly, a sadness lying on his shoulders that was heavier than he expected. Maybe he wasn't as sober as he supposed.

Mycroft barked out a short laugh that sounded strange coming from him. "Who would fall in love with me?"

Lestrade felt himself frown deeply. "You think that lowly of yourself?"

"Not in all respects," Mycroft said. "But my ability to relate to others might be nearly as bad as my brother. Or possibly worse, considering he has John."

"And you don't have anyone?"

Mycroft looked up to Lestrade again, giving him a cursory glance. "Why do you care?"

"I dunno, why do you care about me? Has that alcohol lubricated your wha-cha-ma-call-its yet?"

"Well, you're attractive, for one."

Lestrade blinked and his face went really hot. "Wait… are you…"

"Gay? I've never considered my sexual orientation. It's never particularly mattered to me."

Lestrade was still embarrassed by his words, but not as much as he felt he should've been. It wasn't enough to make him want to leave. "Are you sure it isn't your tongue that's been lubricated?" he asked.

"Yes, I might regret having said that tomorrow."

Lestrade smiled. "Well, thank you, I guess."

"Now, how do I get some of this cake?"

* * *

Sherlock knew he had a lot of other things to do, but Lestrade had ignited his interest a great deal on his way out of the office, and Sherlock just couldn't help following them. He'd discreetly sat in a booth just behind where Lestrade was sitting—he'd gotten nervous for a moment because Lestrade even glanced over, but he didn't recognise him—so he couldn't see them, but he could hear them talking.

And yes, it was surely a date. It was strange to listen to. What did Lestrade like about Mycroft? What did Mycroft like about Lestrade? It was a mystery he planned to solve.

At one point, he considered sending a text message to John. He didn't actually remember putting the number in his phone. Maybe it was still there from… before. Sherlock found it hard to believe he wouldn't have deleted it, but apparently, he was being strange in general during John's absence. Which Sherlock was still having trouble understanding, because he just had no idea how John could've affected him so much. It seemed Lestrade had an idea, but he wasn't telling Sherlock what it was. _If you want to know the truth about your life with John Watson, you'll have to figure it out on your own._ But how? How would he do it?

Sherlock's attention piqued again when he heard himself mentioned by Mycroft. "But my ability to relate to others might be nearly as bad as my brother. Or possibly worse, considering he has John."

What does 'has John' even mean? Sherlock still didn't know how much they'd really known each other, but it must've been well. It was infuriating.

He listened to more of the conversation, but then they started flirting awkwardly and Sherlock wasn't sure he could listen anymore without being sick. Mycroft called Lestrade _attractive_.

He looked back down at his phone. He'd forgotten he was going to text John. What did he even want to say? Why did he want to text him at all? His memories of John were gone, sure, but there was still this fondness, this trust, that weren't founded in anything logically, so they must've been leftover from whatever relationship they had before.

He decided to just send something.

Are you bored? – SH

He texted back quickly.

I suppose. You've been gone a while, where are you? – JW

Eavesdropping on a date. – SH

A date? Whose date? – JW

Lestrade and Mycroft. – SH

… Are they on dates at the same place? – JW

No, they're on a date. Together. – SH

This text message took longer, and Sherlock could almost imagine John staring at the text open mouthed, not knowing what to say.

I'm suddenly really curious. – JW

Then get over here. I'll send the address. – SH

And come in slyly. They might see you otherwise. – SH

Ten minutes later, John came in wearing a sweatshirt with a hood.

"Are you sure it's an actual date?" he hissed nearly silently.

Sherlock spoke quietly too, but not quite at a whisper. "Well I've never personally been on one, but there's drinking and flirting going on, and Mycroft's eating cake, so I'd guess so."

"My god," he muttered.

"That's why I had to come see."

"I didn't think you cared about things like this."

"Usually not," Sherlock said. "But this is Lestrade and my _brother_. Anyone liking my brother is peculiar enough to study. Now shush. We might miss something good."

John rolled his eyes, but said nothing else. Their voiced floated over.

"God, this cake," Mycroft murmured. "Why did I stop eating this?"

A laugh. "Because you said you were fat?"

"Who cares if I'm fat? Cake's worth it."

"Gimme a bite."

"Get your own." Sherlock wasn't sure what Lestrade did next, but then Mycroft mumbled, "Fine," and a plate could be heard sliding across the table.

"Damn, that is good."

"Exactly, so give it back."

Lestrade was laughing again. "God, I haven't laughed this much in ages."

"And I've never made someone laugh this much in… probably my entire life. Why am I so funny anyway?"

"Watching a Holmes let lose is entertaining."

"Speaking of Holmes'," Mycroft said, obviously through a mouth full of cake, "What did Sherlock want?"

"You don't already know?" Lestrade asked amusedly.

"My cameras don't usually have sound."

"God, you have a camera in my office?"

"I have cameras lots of places, Gregory."

"Not my house though, right?"

"No, not your house. Sherlock's house is the only one that merits that kind of surveillance. Which brings me back to the question…"

"John told Sherlock the truth."

"That was even quicker than I predicted."

"Yeah. And he wanted to know why I thought he deleted John."

"And what did you tell him?"

"He missed him."

"And that's true," Mycroft said. "So why do you look like that's not the whole truth?"

Lestrade sighed. "There was more to it, yeah. When we talked that day… Well, I told Sherlock that if I didn't know better, I'd say he was in love with John."

Sherlock didn't look at John. He couldn't bring himself to. Out of the corner of his eye, he couldn't see John's reaction. He kept listening hard, forcing himself not to make any conclusions until he heard the entire conversation.

"Did you really?" Mycroft asked with interest. His voice was, in general, more animated than usual, no doubt from the alcohol.

"He seemed to never have thought of it before, and then, next thing I knew, he was crying."

"That explains everything," said Mycroft. "Once Sherlock had accepted he fell in love... it was too much to be without him. And Moriarty probably knew that too, that's why he took him. Maybe he knew Sherlock would delete John, which would in turn delete much of his knowledge about Moriarty himself. It's rather genius."

A bout of quiet. "I never knew Sherlock could feel that deeply," Lestrade said.

"About someone who adored him as much as John? I'd be surprised if he _didn't_ fall for him. Imagine having a man like John following you around like you're the middle of his universe. How do you not fall for that?"

"You think John loves him too?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh, without a doubt. I'm sure this whole experience is harder on him than we even imagine."

"Sherlock, in love…" Lestrade muttered. "I know it's true and I still can't believe it."

"Maybe that means there's hope for me yet."

"You want to fall in love?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't think I'd admit it usually… but yes. The idea is attractive to me."

"Then I don't think it's too late."

Sherlock, sensing the conversation had turned away from he and John, looked up to see what John thought.

But he wasn't sitting there anymore. He was gone.

* * *

**Okay, so I'm pretty sure this story is going to have ten chapters. So we're almost to the end here! Unless people have requests, I guess...**

**Anywho, please review!**


	9. Chapter 9

**People have said they want more than ten chapters, but I don't have much more left in this plot! I have lots of other Johnlocks, and I'll do any request you give me that isn't too weird, but that's really all I can do for you. I don't want to just add random bullshit to make the story longer, that's no good. So sorry, dears, but we're nearing the end!**

* * *

John'd heard enough when Mycroft said the situation was harder for John than they knew. He got up and walked out, quietly as he could. He must've done a good job, because Sherlock, who hadn't been looking at him, didn't even turn.

John had known he felt that way for a long time. But he always figured it was something he would keep to himself. How do you tell a man who's married to his work that you want to really _be_ with him? It was something that would never go anywhere, so he left it in the back of his mind.

And it was bad enough that Lestrade and Mycroft knew how he felt, but they had to say it while Sherlock was listening in. God, if only he could just jump off a cliff now. Now Sherlock, who didn't even remember him, knew the truth. It was the one thing John'd always been able to hide.

And, of course, Mycroft and Greg were both wrong about Sherlock's feelings. He didn't feel that way. His brain didn't even work that way. That's what John had always figured. So now, Sherlock would… God, John didn't even know what he'd do with that information. Laugh at it? Do experiments based on it? John shuddered at the thought.

John went back to the flat, not knowing where else to go. He'd have to face Sherlock eventually anyway. But he did go up to his room, instead of sitting downstairs on the sofa, and got on his laptop, surfing around but not looking at anything in particular. After a while, he was just sitting on his bed, and somehow Sherlock's mug, which was still on his bedside table, was in his hand, and he was running his thumbs across the rim, where Sherlock's lips would sometimes rest, back before the cup had run completely dry, forgotten.

And then his eyes flitted over to the pile. The pile of papers Sherlock had written while John was gone. What kind of things had Sherlock written there?

He only was able to stop himself from going over there for about ten seconds. Then he took the one off the top again, skimming it. _Today is like every other day. Terrible and punctuated with no sudden realisations as to my blogger's whereabouts._

Sherlock's life was terrible only because John wasn't there? What if… Maybe Mycroft was…

But no. He couldn't even go there. The second he hoped, then he opened himself up for the disappointment that was obviously awaiting him when Sherlock came back. Plus, even if Sherlock had felt anything like that—which he hadn't—it was all forgotten now.

John looked through several more, actually reading them this time, but most were the same. Saying that life was stupid, or boring, or depressing, or god-awful, and that he still had no idea who took John.

Because the clue as to who took John was in how long John was gone for.

And Sherlock didn't last that long before he gave up.

Because he _had_ given up. Given into the fact that John was probably dead, or decided that even if he wasn't, he couldn't search anymore. Mostly, John knew that was a good thing. Sherlock might've killed himself from starvation or something had he not done it… but part of him got a little sad. Sherlock gave up on him.

As he looked through the pile, skimming dozens of them, the mug was still in his other hand. He was hardly aware of it anymore.

Then, after he'd gotten through more than fifty and realised that all near the end were the same, he decided to reach for the bottom of the stack. The first letter.

The 'Day 1' written at the top was in a different pen, like it was added in later. Maybe he hadn't planned to write every day at first.

_Day 1_

_I searched the entire room, every inch of the flat, for some type of clue. Anything that would tell me the truth of John's disappearance. But there was nothing. I felt utterly blind, because I had nothing at all to go by. Not a fingerprint, or a hair, or a shoe-imprint in the carpet, or any evidence that John hadn't broken out of there of his own volition. The only evidence that proves that untrue is that my own tea was drugged. Even that doesn't tell me very much. Probably, they had to have access to medical supplies to do it, but that doesn't it narrow it down much either._

_Honestly, at this point, John doing it himself is a possibility. He made it look like a kidnapping, then left. Possible, but not probable. John wouldn't do that. We had a row last night, sure, but it was no different than usual. Not enough to cause something like this. Or at least I really hope not. _

Sherlock had actually considered John set up his own disappearance so he could get away from Sherlock? That was strange on its own, but on top of that, he thought John was that clever?

John read some, skimmed some, until he got to Day 34.

_I'm trying really hard not to believe that John somehow planned this, but the possibility is eating at me more than I thought it could. Him being gone has been bad enough. I was so used to him being around, I had no idea what it would feel like for him to be gone from my life. And, honestly, it hurts. It hurts worse than anything I've ever known. _

_But now, the possibility that John was just trying to escape me, it's even harder to cope with. Because what if that's the truth? John didn't know how else to sever ties with me, so he got desperate. _

_Maybe I was too attached. Maybe he thought _he_ was. Either way, maybe that means John doesn't want to be found._

John was biting his lip now, forcing his emotions back down inside of him. How could Sherlock ever think that?

But John couldn't stop reading. He was sitting down now, Sherlock's mug now held tight in his grip, like letting go of it would mean letting go of his detective. He had no idea how long it had been. Possibly hours. But he kept going and going, and there was more of the same, mostly. Where is John, maybe he doesn't want to be found… Until…

_Day 256_

_I decided I don't care if he doesn't want me to find him. I will anyway and then I'll tell him I'm sorry for being such a prat all the time and I'll beg him to come back. Because I can't handle this anymore. I never knew before, but John was more than a partner in crime-fighting, more than a friend. He was my other half. He was really all that mattered. I was so stupid, thinking the work mattered more than him. I should've appreciated him, then maybe he wouldn't've left…_

John covered his mouth, having to try harder now to keep from starting to cry. It just reminded him so much of how he felt when Sherlock was gone, and John never wanted Sherlock to feel that way.

_Day 378_

_You know, maybe he did leave on his own, maybe he was taken. I don't really know. But that doesn't matter. I can't sit here and mope that he might've left. Either way, I'm going to find him. I won't think about the possibility it was his plan any longer, because it hinders my work. Either way, I'll bring him back to me. Whatever it takes._

"God, Sherlock," John whimpered. He put the sheet down, unable to finish the stack. He'd seen far, far enough by now. It was stupid to read it anyhow. All these feelings, they were all gone now. Deleted. Burned away.

John wanted tea, but he was afraid to face Sherlock. Maybe he'd just never leave his room again.

John mentally shook himself. That was the stupidest thing he ever thought. He couldn't just hide from him forever. He'd have to discuss it with him. Or maybe Sherlock wouldn't want to talk about it anyway.

He stood up, straightened his shoulders, and walked downstairs. He saw in his periferals that Sherlock was on the sofa, but he didn't actually look over. He went into the kitchen and…

Noticed the mug was still in his hand. Sherlock's mug. He looked down at it, unsure what to do with it. Wash it and put it away? Use it, unwashed, pretending it make him closer to the old Sherlock, like a maniac?

"That's the mug," Sherlock said.

John jumped, because his voice was much closer than before. Less than a metre away. John kept looking at the cup instead of at him.

"It's yours, yeah," John said, holding it out to him, but looking at the ground, unable to meet those eyes, not now.

Sherlock's hand reached out to take the mug, and then he gasped.

John looked up sharply, and Sherlock's eyes were wide as he looked down at John.

"I left that in your room," Sherlock said. "I slept there most nights when you were gone."

John's breathing went ragged. "You remember?" he whispered.

"Not… not much. Sleeping in your bed. Writing… something like a journal. Looking for clues…"

John got an idea. This meant the information was there. It wasn't just gone. It had to be triggered. "Come on!" he said, running up the stairs. Sherlock followed without hesitation, and John thrust into his hands a large portion of the letters. "Writing these. You wrote these while I was gone. Do you remember them?"

Sherlock skimmed them quickly, only needing a second or two for each page.

"I… no. Not really, no. I understand I wrote them, but I don't remember feeling these things."

John sighed. "Damn it. I thought…" John huffed out an exasperated breath and sat down on the bed.

"But John, this means it's there!"

"That's what I thought too."

"It's still true! These just aren't the way to unlock it."

"Then how? It could take ages to get it all back, couldn't it?"

"Yes. But why does that matter? It's something to work with."

John nodded, but didn't feel very hopeful. "Yes, it's something."

* * *

It'd been months since John was back. Mostly, they were working on trying to figure out where Moriarty was, and doing other smaller cases on the side when Lestrade asked, but they also had a side-case: help Sherlock remember what he deleted.

Every once in a while, something came back. Sherlock read John's whole blog, and with it came memories of the fact that those cases had happened, but most details were lost. Sherlock, upon seeing a picture of a black flower, remembered when Soo Lin Yao had been killed while they were in the building with her. When he was looking through a drawer, he saw a scrap of paper that said H.O.U.N.D. on it, written during some bout of brainstorming, which reminded him of when he'd used John in an experiment by locking him in a lab and making frightening noises over an intercom.

But even as these little events came back to him, all emotions were lost. He knew they happened, and the things he already knew happened but had forgotten John's presence there were now corrected to include John in his mind. But, from what Sherlock explained to John, it was more like reading a book about things happening than actually _remembering_ them properly. Not even books, more like bulleted lists of plot. There was nothing but fact, no thoughts or emotions based on what happened. So really, it was no different than if John tried to explain everything that happened. Not helpful.

Slightly helpful in the Moriarty case, however, since he now remembered anything that had to do with him where John was present.

But, even though it was selfish, that wasn't the case John cared about.

John and Sherlock never discussed what Lestrade had said about them, and John was damn thankful for that. He didn't want to breach it, not even a little.

John was sitting in Lestrade's office, because Sherlock was down in the lab, having recruited Molly to help, and John just plain didn't feel like it today. He'd walked out in the middle, to preoccupied with his thoughts to worry about the man who'd recently killed three people.

He looked up and saw that Lestrade was no longer looking at the paper in front of him, but was looking up at John.

"Sorry, am I distracting you?" John asked. "I could go. I should be helping Sherlock anyway."

"No, no, it's fine. How's project 'Un-delete' going?"

John sighed. "The same."

"Then how are _you_?"

"You know, fine."

"But it still bothers you. That he doesn't know you the way he used to."

"Of course it does. How could it not?"

"But aren't you guys becoming friends again?"

"Yeah, yeah I guess. But… I dunno. It's not the same."

"No, I get it," Lestrade said.

The phone then rang. Lestrade glanced at it, then at his watch, then back at John. It rang again.

"You gonna get that?" John asked.

"Erm… no, it can wait."

"Please, get it, I don't mind," John said.

Lestrade waited another ring, then sighed and picked up the phone.

"It's not a good time," he said, skipping the hello. "But you should know that, shouldn't you?"

Oh, god. It was Mycroft. Had to have been. Were he and Lestrade together now? How strange.

"I know you always call now, but obviously, John's here."

Another response.

"I'll see you tonight, alright? Like always."

A response that made Lestrade smile.

"Yeah, I'll see you in a few hours. Bye, Myc."

He hung up, his cheeks pink. "Erm, sorry 'bout that. He always calls at three."

"Every day?"

Lestrade licked his lips and looked at his desk. "Most days, yeah."

John wasn't sure what to say. He went with, "Wow."

"Yeah… We always go to the pub on Wednesdays. Sort of a tradition now. He knew I couldn't talk, but he was just asking if we were still going."

"So… are you…"

"Don't really know anymore, honestly. Not officially."

"But…"

"What, are you going to awkwardly ask if we're sleeping together? Not that it's any of your business at all, but no, we aren't."

"But you're happy?"

"Yeah… yeah, I suppose so."

"Then that's good. I'm happy for you. Someone's got to be." John sighed. "By the way, on your first date, Sherlock and I were listening in."

He'd meant to mention it a long time ago, and now probably wasn't the best time, but it kind of just came out.

Lestrade's jaw dropped. "You _what_ _now_?"

"Yeah… so Sherlock and I heard you discussing that we were in love with each other and, let me tell you, it's damn awkward." He was exaggerating it a little, and sure, he shouldn't've been eavesdropping in the first place, but he _did_ blame Lestrade for it a bit.

Lestrade was huffing angrily for a moment before he said, "Well, you bloody well are in love with each other, so someone might as well say it!"

"Not anymore!" John yelled, louder than he meant to. Lestrade looked surprised and he knew people were probably looking into the room now, wondering what they were talking about. John sighed and said more quietly, "He doesn't remember how he feels, so even if he did have feelings for me, which he didn't, it doesn't bloody matter now."

"You think he didn't have feelings for you? God, you're an idiot."

"This is Sherlock we're talking about, Greg."

"Yeah, I know that. Holmes' aren't quite as heartless as they pretend, now are they?"

"Just—stop getting my hopes up, will you?" he hissed. "Sherlock's never going to feel that way again. You can't fall in love with the same person twice, you just can't. There's no way the world's that kind. So Sherlock and I will never happen. I get that now."

"You really don't know that, John. Not until you try it."

"And what do you propose? Wait for ages? Disappear again so he realises he misses me?"

"Why don't you stop complaining and just _do_ something? Ask him out. Just grab his stupid face and kiss him, I dunno."

"You think that'd go well?"

"Sherlock surprises everyone all the time. There's no way to guess what'll work with him and what won't."

John stood. "Well, I'm going home."

"John…" Lestrade muttered. "Things are going to turn out okay."

"And why do you say that?"

There was a pause. "Because I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

John turned back to Lestrade for a moment, perplexed by the statement. Then he walked out, but didn't slam the door like he planned to and headed back to the flat.

He wasn't even finished making tea when the door could be heard in the other room.

"John? Where'd you disappear to?" Sherlock asked.

John turned and somehow, Sherlock was right there, so close John could see the fleck of brown in one of his eyes.

And John had absolutely no idea what possessed him to do it. None at all. Maybe it was because Lestrade had suggested it. Maybe it was because Sherlock was too beautiful for words. Maybe it was because John had gone completely mental.

But either way, John grabbed both sides of Sherlock's face, and he leaned up, and he kissed him. No warning. No cue. He just did it.

Damn the consequences.

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**Bum bum buuuum. And so, we shall reach the conclusion in the next chapter. Again, sorry folks!**

**By the way, this story just got to fifty reviews and I just wanted to thank you all for being so awesome! :] I love me some reviews, they are part of the reason I'm updating so quickly. They make me excited to write. So yes, thank you all so much!**


	10. Chapter 10

**All of my last chapters are always really short. Like I think I have a lot more to say and I never do. Sorry about that. But anywho, here's the conclusion. Hopefully it didn't fall flat. And this story never had smut, did it? Oops. I'll have to go change the rating.**

* * *

He was surprised when Sherlock's arms wound around his waist after barely a second, and his hands automatically tangled themselves in those curly locks.

Then John pulled his lips away, but was still caught in Sherlock's grip.

Sherlock was breathing hard, looking down at John wildly. "John," he breathed. "_John_."

And John couldn't breathe either, because he thought he knew what had happened.

"Sherlock?" John asked, trying to crush down the hope swelling in his chest.

"God, John, how could I ever forget you?"

John was breathing like he'd run a mile now. "You—you remember?"

"John, it was horrible. You being gone… You didn't really leave, did you?"

"God, of course not. Why would I want to leave you?"

Sherlock smiled, a _real_ smile. "I don't think I ever understood what I put you through by leaving, not 'til now. I'm sorry."

"Oh, I'm over that. But you _deleting_ me, however…"

Sherlock let go of John, and he already yearned to be back in his arms. "Speaking of which…" Sherlock muttered, and then his face went slack, but he continued to stand there, staring straight above John's head. He knew quickly he'd descended back into his mind palace.

It was another few moments before he opened his eyes. "There's still damage, but some things are fixed."

"Some? Not all?"

"I guess not."

"Then how do we fix it?"

Sherlock smiled again. "I have an idea of that one." Sherlock stepped closer, his eyes burning.

"Now, wait a moment, Sherlock. There's no way… that… was what brought your memory back! It makes no sense!"

"When you rule out the impossible—"

"Yes, yes, the improbable, I know. But Sherlock… you can't just do that for an experiment."

"That's not what I'm doing it for, John."

He held his denial close to him. "Then what?"

"You know what."

"Sherlock… you don't get it. If you're just pretending to get your data…"

"John Watson, just shut up and kiss me already."

And really, John didn't need to hear that past Sherlock's lips more than once. Even though everything in him was telling him this was a dream, or a horrible experiment, he lunged forward and crushed his lips into Sherlock's, leaving Sherlock pressed against the wall. Sherlock squeezed his arms around him tight, as tight as he could, and John did the same. He could lose Sherlock again any moment. He knew that now. He couldn't risk wasting the time he had.

And John somehow thought the kiss would eventually end, but it wasn't. Both Sherlock and John got farther into the moment, and eventually it wasn't just lips meeting, but tongues. Sherlock yanked at John's jumper and John removed it quickly, too lost in what was happening to worry if it was real anymore. Sherlock's shirt was also lost to the floor before they separated, looking each other with pupils dilated.

"John," Sherlock said again. "How've I been living with half my brain gone all this time?"

"I dunno," John panted. "But… are we really going to do this?"

"I want to. God, I want to," Sherlock said, sounding nothing like himself.

"Sherlock…" John said again. "This isn't just a random fuck for me."

Sherlock pushed away from the wall, approaching John. "I know that. It's not for me either."

The last threads John had attached to his denial were beginning to weaken. "You…"

"I knew, from the start, the only real reason I'd delete someone was because I loved them. I fell for them, and then I lost them. I knew that the moment I knew I deleted you, John. I just had to remember the feelings."

"So you…"

"So I'm in love with you? I probably understand it less than you do, but yes, I am. How _I_, of all people…" he trailed off. "I'm so happy you're back. That I'm back," he added.

John nodded. "Me too." He didn't know what else to say. "Are you going to admit this happened tomorrow?"

"Who do you propose I tell?"

"That's not what I mean."

"I know it's not," Sherlock said, "You're just fun to tease."

"Shut up and kiss me."

Sherlock came forward another step, like he might oblige, and then said, "But you didn't say it back."

"What, that I love you?" John asked.

"Yes, that."

"Does it need saying?"

"You made me say it. So yes, apparently it does."

"Well I do."

"Do what?"

John groaned. "Fine, fine. I love you."

Sherlock grinned. "Yes, I know."

John rolled his eyes. "But I also hate you."

"I know that too. Now shut up and kiss me again."

And John did.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, everyone. Hope you liked it. If you want more Johnlock, I got more Johnlock! Just go to my profile!**


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